


borne back ceaselessly into the past

by yellowcars



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1920s, F/M, Other, Time Travel, and Nick makes bad life choices, the one where Tom Buchanan is a Death Eater
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcars/pseuds/yellowcars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Over a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry finds out that not all of Voldemort's Horcruxes are as dead as previously thought. On a self-appointed mission to hunt down and destroy this mysterious eighth piece of the Dark Lord's soul, Harry, Ron, and Hermione must travel back to 1922 New York to face down loose morals, glitzy parties, and a Death-Eater-in-hiding named Tom Buchanan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	borne back ceaselessly into the past

**Author's Note:**

> co-authored with the lovely [Virgil](http://awanderingsheep.tumblr.com).
> 
> (Nothing belongs to us. Poor Fitzgerald is probably turning in his grave.)

_So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past._

 

–f. scott fitzgerald, _the great gatsby_.

 -

 

It was not the best of days to be the Boy-well-now-really-the-Man who Lived, reflected the one unlucky enough to bear that cumbersome title as he juggled a stack of parchment with the arm not keeping a similar, larger stack bobbing in the air beside him. He thanked just about every deity ever worshipped, Merlin’s pants included, that the engineers of the Auror Department had had the foresight to install wide corridors; what with the frequent comings and goings of Wizarding law enforcement, convicts often in tow, and the veritable reams of parchment being whizzed about to and fro, it was difficult to find any free space to walk, even to just pass from one adjacent office to another. Dodging a cup of what looked like lemony tea flying contentedly at great speed at his face, Harry ducked gratefully into his own little cubicle-office, letting the spell go with a sigh and watching with not a small amount of satisfaction to see the the paperwork fall with a dusty thump.

   

Harry Potter, the one who would have the dubious honor of being forever remembered as the one who defeated Voldemort with the power of love (Peeves, certainly, would never let him forget it), had been spending the remarkably Dark-Lord-free year and a half since the Battle of Hogwarts in a whirl of glory, attention, and makeup coursework, the last one being exactly the sort of unglamorous thing the stories about heroes always forgot to mention. One certainly wouldn’t expect the Chosen One in the back corner of some secluded Hogwarts classroom specially fortified to keep out the raging fans, attempting for the better part of ten months re-doing all the things he’d missed in his seventh year, but the fact remained that that was exactly what he was expected to do. Professor McGonagall had been quite insistent, and so soon after Voldemort, Harry wasn’t prepared to start making more enemies.

 

Finding a job—or, perhaps more accurately, an internship—hadn’t been difficult. The entire Ministry, perhaps more than a little shamed at their atrocious treatment of Harry during the war, was endlessly enthusiastic in offering him positions in everything from Muggle Liaisons to the Department of Mysteries. The choice, however, had certainly not been difficult; Mad-Eye would probably have executed a ballet-step in his grave at the knowledge that Harry had chosen the path of an Auror (extra hours in Slughorn’s office be damned), although nobody—and quite literally nobody, apart from perhaps Rita Skeeter, who Harry was convinced had always harbored the hope that everybody’s newly-favorite golden boy would turn to a life of crime or scandal—was very much surprised at the news.

 

Certainly, though, Harry had expected the whole thing to be just a _bit_ more glamorous. Everything seemed to be paperwork for an intern of his caliber; apparently his mettle had to be tested by an unending sea of parchment before he was considered worthy to even begin training. Whoever had decided that the Boy Who Lived was good for nothing but a desk job, Harry decided, might be his first post-Voldemort target, if only to keep him on his toes. Being an Auror was dead boring, and after the first eight months, Harry was almost ready to fall over in a corner and cry quietly in despair. Apparently all the gratitude in the world and Kingsley Shacklebolt’s most concerted efforts couldn’t budge the steady machine of Ministry bureaucracy, and so Harry was stuck as an intern for what looked like the farthest foreseeable future and then some.

 

 _And then some_ was what he was nervous about. He could picture all too clearly a silver-bearded Dumbledore-Harry with facial hair to challenge even the late Headmaster’s, still stuck at his desk, writing yet more forms for _imprudent acts of Dark Magic, most likely under the influence of alcohol_. The upcoming Death Eater trials, scheduled in a few more weeks’ time, was his only hope of any interest; he hated the idea of re-living the war and old brutalities, but certainly it was more hope for advancement than he would get quietly pushing a quill around, copying the same things over and over and over again.

 

Yet it wasn’t so bad. The fact was that this new life had a certain sort of peace about it, a charm that for the last seventeen years of his life he could never remember feeling outside of the memory of Lily Potter’s arms. It was safety, and if safety and life came at the expense of a bit of action, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. He had Ginny to come home to and Ron and Hermione to talk to, all the people whom he’d cared about and saved over the years, not all of them alive but all of them loved just the same, and the present was more livable than it had been for a long time.

 

But, as far as luck went, Harry Potter would forever go down in history as the only one with such a catastrophic combination of both the surprisingly good and horrifically bad sort ever to have lived in the universe.

 

And the universe, everyone knows, gets its kicks out of tormenting Harry Potter.

 

As Harry sorted the forms into stacks of “important” and “not that important” (the latter being the thicker by far) while simultaneously contemplating the cruelty of the universe with his abundant unoccupied brain space, his eyes fell upon an envelope on the corner of his desk bearing a familiar seal. Suddenly Harry was a giddy eleven-year-old grabbing for the envelope, hands clammy with anticipation. He turned it over, and the words scrawled in green read:

 

_Mr. Harry Potter_

_Cupboard-Sized Office_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Ministry of Magic Headquarters_

_London, England_

 

Harry broke the seal and opened the letter, finding a message printed with the kind of neat precision that reminded him of Hermione Granger.

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_As you know, I have been called upon to fill the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts for this term, or at least until McGonagall can find somebody older and more qualified. My students are all very bright, and many of them have questions about the subject which I feel that you are more suited to answer. My fiance, Percy, says that as a friend of the family you would be more than willing to come to my class as a guest speaker, but I thought I should write to you myself._

 

_If you are too busy with your work at the Ministry, I understand._

 

_Hopefully I’ll see you at Hogwarts, or perhaps at Molly’s before then. Send Ginny my regards._

 

_Thank you for your time,_

_Professor Penelope Clearwater_

 

Fiancé. Percy and Penelope were engaged? But yes, of course they were, Harry had already known that. He rubbed his head. Keeping track of Ginny on her own was hard enough, but when he added her entire family to the equation, Harry sometimes felt overwhelmed.  

 

He reread the letter. _Guest speaker_. He, a guest at Hogwarts? Hogwarts was his home, his only home, in spite of the fact that he now had a flat in London with Ginny. The prospect of speaking to groups of teenagers who still knew him as “The Boy Who Lived” unnerved him, but any reason to return to Hogwarts was a valid one.  

 

 

-

 

 

When Harry arrived at Number Seven, Cleveland Gardens, his dear Ginnypoo (better known to the rest of the world as Ginny Weasley, Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies) had not yet arrived back from Taiwan, where she was playing in an international tournament. He made himself a sandwich and briefly considered making one for his steadily-more-significant other but decided against it. Who knew when she’d be coming home, after all.

 

Nibbling at the crust of his admittedly paltry turkey creation, he sat down to compose a reply to Penelope’s letter.

 

_Penelope,_

 

_Thank you for your invitation. I would be happy to speak to your class. I’ve been meaning to stop by at the castle for some time, so it wouldn’t be a bother._

_How about next week, Monday?_

 

_Harry_

 

He read it over a few times, decided that it didn’t matter that it sounded a bit stiff (after all, gallivanting about in the wild for most of his seventh year did not lead to good letter-writing skills), and walked over to the windowsill, where their owl, Morgana, was fluffed contently, half-asleep next to the remains of an unfortunate mouse.

 

“Morgana,” said Harry.

 

The owl ignored him. He was sure it was on purpose. He missed Hedwig.

 

“Morgana,” said Harry, more emphatically.

 

She looked up and glared.

 

“Take this to Hogwarts for me, alright? To the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

 

Morgana continued to glare.

 

“ _Please?_ ”

 

Apparently it really was a magic word.

 

When Ginny finally returned, Harry had to use it on her as well. Women.

 

 

-

 

Penelope wrote him back the next day, saying that Monday would be great, and would he mind staying for more than one day?

 

 _Of course_ , he penned, figuring that a two-word response would be sufficient, as Morgana was starting to look impatient. He didn’t want to risk another permanent scar. It would be nice to stay in Gryffindor Tower, anyway. He and the Fat Lady had a lot of catching up to do.

 

-

 

Sunday evening came round, and Harry was again eating another turkey sandwich alone, this one having been bought at the little Chelsea Deli around the corner because he no longer trusted his own culinary skills. The last sandwich he’d attempted to make (with magic, of course), had spontaneously imploded.

 

The owl was staring at his sandwich and looking mortally offended. He offered her a bit of crust and she turned her beak away in disgust. Harry sighed. Morgana’s range of expressions seemed as limited as Severus Snape’s—the only difference was that Morgana carried his mail.

 

He looked forward to the house-elf-prepared fare of the Great Hall. Limp and soggy sandwiches certainly couldn’t compare. He realized that he would be allowed to sit at the Head Table and felt a rather loopy grin traverse his face. This was going to be fun.

 

-

 

Harry woke up from a wonderful dream about taking Ginny to a carnival where by sheer athletic prowess, he won for her some violently pink candyfloss that looked like a cloud on a stick. The cloud grew and drifted upwards, bearing the two of them into the sky, continuing to grow until there was nothing left.

 

It was a good dream, but as the sunlight streamed down on him, he realized that he was eating his pillow. Embarrassed, he looked to make sure that Ginny (who was still peacefully asleep) had not seen him before quickly getting dressed and packing his worldly possessions into a travel bag. As he was packing, he realized that a more sensible wizard would have simply charmed a smaller bag to fit everything, but he was no Hermione Granger.

 

Anyway, he wanted to take along the broken Horcrux-locket as a visual aid for the class, and he didn’t want to take any chances. It was still there, where he’d put it when they moved in. The bottom of the drawer still held a locket-shaped patch amidst the dust when he removed it.

 

By then it was nine o’clock and Flooing to Hogwarts was a simple matter. He’d come a ways from his twelve-year-old self and sketchy alleyways were bypassed in favor of the familiar honey-colored stone of Hogwarts; even soot-stained as most of the fireplaces were, Harry could still recognize the distinct sense of home that welled up from the hearth. It was probably a special talent of the chronically homeless, one of the things he and the now-departed Tom Riddle had shared. Even the Burrow didn’t inspire this sort of recognition.

 

The office was a familiar one, even with the touches Penelope Clearwater had added. Lupin’s grindylow tank was long gone, but the scorch marks from defensive jinxes of past classes of overeager DADA students had never been erased. There was perhaps more fresh air present than he remembered; Penelope had opened the windows and a nice breeze was drifting in. The professor herself was sitting at her desk, back to the fireplace, and Harry brushed himself off and stepped from out the green flames, coughing politely to catch her attention.

 

“Good morning,” he said.

 

Turning from a pile of what looked to be essays, she gave him a friendly smile and motioned for him to drop his things on the spare armchair by the fire, which he did gratefully. He’d crammed a lot of things in the limited space, and the disorientation that always came with the Floo wasn’t helping in the arm-strength department.

 

“You’re here just on time,” she told him as he pulled up the chair and dumped his bag on his lap. “I wanted to go over some lesson plans with you before you went in and talked, if that’s all right?”

 

“Yeah, definitely. Was there anything specific you wanted me to mention?”

 

“The third years are my first class, and they’ve been learning the basics of boggarts. We’ve been looking out for any in the castle that could be used for a hands-on session, but for now if you could tell them about your experiences, that would be a definite help, I’m sure.”

She went on in this vein for some time. The sixth years were learning about advanced Dark Magic, and Harry volunteered his idea of showing the stabbed locket. After a slight hesitation, Penelope agreed, though she looked relieved that he didn’t take it out from amongst his things. Voldemort was still Voldemort, even dead and with every bit of him destroyed.

 

It seemed that Harry had quite the busy day in front of him, and he hurried to at least drop his bag on one of the spare teachers’ rooms (he hadn’t known such things existed in the school, but then again, this was Hogwarts) before starting with his talks.

 

As it turned out, he didn’t even have a break for lunch.

 

 

-

 

 

Three days later, Harry finally found himself able to spend a blissful hour alone. He wasn’t cut out for long stretches of public speaking, and even though most of the classes had been nicely attentive (when they weren’t asking him detailed questions of exactly what had happened during every single year of his Hogwarts/Voldemort experiences), he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse on a bed, preferably at home, picky owl and all. Ginny probably missed him. He missed her, anyway.

 

Half an hour was spent walking through his old haunts, but instead of lifting his spirits, it only made him feel old. Things had changed with the rebuilding of the school, and here he was, nearly twenty, no longer a student but still feeling as if at any second he was expected to report to some class somewhere. When rebuilding, they’d tried to get the same stone and, magical masons being much better at mimicking authenticity than their Muggle counterparts, had been largely successful, but Harry could tell. There were patches of wall that didn’t quite fit, their color a bit too bright, and no amount of charming could make them carry the age that the rest of the castle did. Back when he’d been making up classes, it had been mostly okay; after all, he was still a student at the school, no matter how technically the basis, and the familiarity of routine was enough to chase away the thoughts of _this is where Fred died, where Tonks, where Colin_ , if only temporarily.

 

But now his guilty conscience came back full force and his walk of nostalgia turned into a lot of unpleasant introspection about the wisdom of coming back to Hogwarts at all when his future no longer included it.

 

Unguided by his frothing, fretting brain, his legs took it of their own accord to Dumbledore’s office, although of course it wasn’t Dumbledore’s anymore; it wasn’t surprising, considering the weight the room held for him. Maybe Dumbledore’s portrait would help him feel a bit less bitterly nostalgic; hell, he would even take Snape’s scathing commentary, if only because it was an echo of the old days. Thinking of Snape reminded him of the Pensieve, and Harry wondered whether it was still there. It was, after all, a highly magical object that the Ministry probably couldn’t wait to get its hands on, but there was (probably) no harm in poking around a bit to see. It wouldn’t even technically be breaking and entering if he could guess the proper password.

 

The gargoyle smirked at him (he was probably friends with Morgana, come to think of it), and Harry wondered if McGonagall had ever gotten around to changing the password.

 

“Acid Pops?” he said uncertainly.

 

The gargoyle grinned and blew him a raspberry. Apparently not.

 

“Er. Cockroach Clusters. Licorice Wands. Ice Mice?”

 

Harry mentally went through what seemed like the entire inventory of Honeyduke’s, continually mocked by the gargoyle, with no success. The Deputy Headmistress, it seemed, did not have a fondness for sweets.

 

“I don’t know, all right? Just let me in. Come _on_.”

 

Sighing loudly, Harry turned, feeling his stress levels increase in a manner clearly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon. “Never mind,” he muttered, shooting the smug gargoyle a glare. “Couldn’t it have been something obvious like _lemon drop?_ ”

 

The sudden grinding noise as the gargoyle moved aside to show the door was answer enough.

 

 

-

 

 

Robbed of its delicate, spinning mechanisms and the comforting red-gold presence of Fawkes, the office was more of a catalyst for his nostalgia than a cure. But aside from a certain strict quality in its highly dusted corners that he did not remember from his school years, it was still the same office. Head teachers dozed in their portraits and sunlight streamed through the open window. Nobody sat at the too-clean desk, but he could see the Pensieve cabinet, untouched, from where he was at the door.

 

Moving quickly over to its inviting blueish light, Harry saw Snape’s portrait from the corner of his eye. The hook-nosed man was glaring at him in a most familiar way, though Harry considered the fact that he had not yet made any snide comments as a small personal victory.

 

“Hello?” he ventured, thinking that this was probably as good a time as any to make up for their longstanding mutual dislike.

 

“ _Potter_.” Snape merely glared. “And what do you think you’re doing in this most hallowed of offices? Might I remind you that you are no longer a student at this school?”

 

“Actually, Sn—Professor,” said Harry, correcting himself with a bit of difficulty, “I’ve been helping Penelope Clearwater teach her Defense Against the Dark Arts class—”

 

Snape, as ever, didn’t miss the chance for a scathing interruption. “And what does that have to do with this intrusion upon the Headmistress’s office?”

 

“Er. Catching up on old times?” said Harry weakly.

 

Considering that Snape was technically dead, and that old times for the ex-Headmaster weren’t exactly pleasant memories to be perused through, it might not have been the best choice of words. Harry was nothing if a bit dim when it came to people’s feelings.

 

The glare that was sent in his direction was clear enough, and he hurriedly added, “I won’t disturb anything, I swear. Erm.”

 

He wasn’t quite sure how to correctly phrase _And by the way, thanks for those tragic memories you gave me; they were a really great help in killing Voldemort and I’m really sorry you’re dead_ , so he didn’t.

 

 

-

 

 

Perhaps it was his conversation with the (still glaring) Snape, or perhaps it was only fate, but when Harry opened the doors of the cabinet and let the glow of the Pensieve lighten the room, he found himself reaching for the little bottle messily labeled Severus Snape in his own hand. He’d left it in the office after the last battle, assuming it would be safest there, and the black ink stood out from all of the other faded bottles in Dumbledore’s spidery script. He gave the portrait a look but realized that Snape (probably) couldn’t see the label from across the room; it was a small consolation, as Harry wasn’t sure how Snape would feel about Harry choosing his memory of all places to take a literal walk down memory lane.

 

The memory swirled in the basin like all the others had before it, and Harry took one furtive look back at Snape (still glaring) and gulped an instinctive but unnecessary breath before plunging down into the depths.

 

Fate had always enjoyed toying around with Harry Potter. It didn’t seem to want to stop its games anytime soon.

 

 

-

 

 

Again he saw his mother as she was ( _you freak!_ ), playing in the sunlit playground with the scrawny boy watching her. He watched Lily and Severus in the Hogwarts of old and saw them grow up and break up; it wasn’t any easier this second time around, even without the doom of _Avada Kedavra_ hanging over his head. There was Snape, older and greasier and crying over the distant body of Harry’s dead mother in Dumbledore’s too-quiet office.

 

This time, Harry had more of a chance to explore his surroundings; he couldn’t go far from Snape, as they were Snape’s memories, but Dumbledore’s office intrigued him. There were the mechanisms whirring as always on their little stands, but there were also letters he didn’t remember ever seeing before. They looked to be Order business, judging by the seals, and Harry floated over while the conversation between the two men drifted toward its inevitable end. He was still curious about the Order’s first incarnation and his parents’ involvement in it, and it was a distraction from the sobbing not-yet-Potions professor.

 

The first two letters were in fact some sort of Order report, signed in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s steady hand, but underneath the phoenix-stamped parchment there was a third sheet, plain and slightly ragged. Harry’s eyes, drawn mostly to Kingsley’s letters, would never have given the half-covered page a second look if it weren’t for the very last line.

 

    _Your obedient servant,_

_Tom_

 

Tom. _Tom._ There was only one Tom that Harry could think of who could write a letter considered important enough to land on Dumbledore’s desk, and the ramifications weren’t particularly pleasant. What was Voldemort doing, writing to Dumbledore in the middle of a war, much less using _your obedient servant,_ of all phrases? Something in the whole business was smelling most distinctly of rat.

 

He could feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle and fancied he felt a twinge in his scar.

 

The conversation was nearing what Harry remembered was its end, and he frantically scanned what he could see of the page; much of the top-right corner and some of the left side was blocked and he couldn’t tell the date, but the opening salutation was enough to throw him.

 

_My Lord—_

 

Nothing fit. Harry was nearly positive that Voldemort would have shot himself with a Killing Curse before calling anybody, much less his enemy once-professor, anything more than _minion_. And yet, there was the signature. Tom. Who?

 

He read on frantically.

 

_My Lord,_

 

 _All as gone as you_ —and here the page was blocked. Harry swore and attempted to bat the offending papers out of the way, knowing as he did that it would be pointless. He was less than a ghost; nothing worked in this place but his eyes.

   

 _—have been put into place,_ the letter continued. _The goods have been secured—_

_—obtained a Time-Turner through Luc—_

_—stry suspects nothing. We have planned my departure for the 14th of—_

_—rcrux set in—_

_Once all is set, I will contact you in the way we have decided. I will not fail you._

_Your obedient servant,_

_Tom_

 

    And still nothing made sense. Harry looked around and wished he could jump into the conversation, as delicate as it was in deciding the future to come, and demand of the younger Dumbledore what the hell any of the letter meant. Dumbledore had mentioned nothing of this Tom or of anything to do with Voldemort and a Time-Turner. Whatever the letter meant, Harry was pretty sure that _rcrux_ was not code for _let’s all go and have a picnic by the seaside._ Knowing Voldemort, it would probably end in death or worse.

 

Even the shrillest of shouts would have come to nothing, but he tried anyway, alternating between gesticulating wildly and trying to make as much noise as he could. Snape, still tremendously emotional, duly ignored him; so did the Headmaster. Harry had never hated the deaf-muteness of memories as much as he did at that moment.

 

There was nothing to do but read the letter again. He would, he decided, commit it to memory and demand answers the moment he got back. The calmer portion of his brain, the part that hung out and watched while crunching popcorn as his body went charging on one stupidly heroic adventure after another, reminded him that the letter probably wasn’t even important in the present day. After all, Dumbledore would have told him about the Horcrux mentioned in the letter, Time-Turners and strange Toms and all. The plan had probably failed.

 

(Yes, countered the rather less reasonable part of his mind. Probably, but that doesn’t excuse my curiosity, thankyouverymuch.)

 

Harry continued to read.

 

_My Lord,_

_All has gone as. . ._

 

Too late, three lines down, he felt the memory begin to dissolve as the conversation ended, and shouted ineffectually at Snape’s bloody stupid timing all the way until they turned again to Dumbledore’s office. But the letter, when the office re-formed, was long gone.

 

 

-

 

 

Over the course of his stay at Hogwarts, he returned twice more to Snape’s memories, but the repeated rereads of the letter had given him no more information. Portrait-Snape, having remembered only what the real Snape had noticed that visit in the office, did not recall any mysterious letters, having been rather too occupied with bawling his eyes out on the occasion. Harry very tactfully did not mention that last fact to the portrait, but was still met with a sarcastic look and a demand to _get your backside out of this office, Potter, before I inform the Headmistress of your conduct_. Harry was not particularly worried about McGonagall’s wrath, but it was a very clear dismissal, and, for once, he obeyed.

 

Dumbledore, meanwhile, had been happily asleep the whole time, and the ever-vigilant Snape told Harry upon his first return from the Pensieve that under no circumstances was he to ever wake a Head teacher’s portrait; _it is a disrespect,_ he’d said very snidely, _that even_ you _would not sink so low to commit._ He’d grudgingly allowed Harry return visits, but after the third trip into the Pensieve, Harry had to admit that he would get no more answers from Snape. The rest of his time waiting for portrait-Dumbledore to wake up (how long _could_ the man doze, anyway?) was spent digging through the rows of bottled memories without much success. There were hundreds of bottles and Harry had only limited break times; the end of the week was approaching and he was pretty sure that he would be missed at home if he stayed any longer. Ginny’s wrath was a most terrible thing to behold, and while the other Weasleys and Hermione would probably forgive him a missed visit over the weekend, Harry had enough on his mind without angering his girlfriend too.

 

It was on the second to last day that Dumbledore finally cracked his twinkling blue eyes open. Harry fervently thanked any deity in the vicinity, for he was getting desperate and stealing time in between classes in the hopes that a fully awake purple-robed wizard would finally make an appearance. His bag was already packed and he’d been thinking of excuses to stay; an obsession to rival his sixth-year manhunt for Draco Malfoy was fast consuming him. He _needed_ the answers to this mysterious letter. Nothing could mention a Horcrux and not be worthwhile.

 

“Professor,” said Harry, immediately after seeing Dumbledore yawn. This earned him a glare from Snape—he could feel it boring into the back of his head—but he ignored it.

 

“Ah, Harry,” said Dumbledore with a cheery smile. “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Professor,” said Harry again, nodding at the pleasantry but not willing to get sucked into a mire of small talk. “I wanted to ask you something. It’s kind of important.”

 

“Ask away, my dear boy.”

 

“I was going through a memory”—he didn’t say which memory—“And I couldn’t help noticing a letter on your desk. It said—it was a letter to Voldemort, I think.”

 

The portrait looked suddenly guarded. “Go on.”

 

“This was sometime after he killed my parents. It must’ve been. I saw the letter and in it there was a mention of some plan, and—” He stopped and looked at the portrait, but Dumbledore’s pale blue eyes gave nothing away.

 

    “They were talking about Horcruxes. I’m sure of it. There was a Time-Turner and it was written by somebody named Tom, but it wasn’t Voldemort himself, was it?”

 

Something approaching sadness lurked in the portrait’s face. He looked tired, like the real Dumbledore had when talking of that last journey to the cave. It was not a reassuring look, and Harry wondered what in the world could be happening. Voldemort was dead, and yet there was still that fear lurking somewhere deep in his mind.

 

“Harry,” said the portrait slowly, “I had hoped that it would be revealed to you in time, after you recovered from the war.”

 

“But I’ve found it now, Professor. If this is important, I’d rather know it now.”

 

There was a pause. Harry gave the portrait a determined look, and after what seemed like long minutes of waiting, Dumbledore finally acquiesced.

 

“You are aware, of course, that you were Voldemort’s unintentional seventh Horcrux. This is what I’d suspected ever since his Killing Curse failed, but what I did not know until the letter was found was that there were in fact seven Horcruxes all along, even before he made his attempt on your life.”

 

Harry could do nothing more than blink. “What?”

 

“The letter, you must be sure, was a veritable trove of information. Voldemort’s seventh—rather, _eighth_ —Horcrux was entrusted to one of his Death Eaters, Tom Buchanan, who disappeared years ago under mysterious circumstances. They had been friends while at Hogwarts, but Buchanan was a few years the elder. The Order had previously been under the impression that he had been killed in Portugal. But, of course—”

 

“The Time-Turner!” Harry said, almost shouting.

 

“Yes, the Time-Turner,” said Dumbledore. “Do you not see the vanity of it? It is surprising enough that Voldemort handed a piece of his soul to a follower who bore his own hated first name; one can only surmise the great trust that Voldemort held for the other. But to plot to use a Time-Turner to send his Horcrux to the past, a most dangerous experiment, can only show his fatal disregard. He had six others; why not hide away this last piece on what amounted to a whimsical experiment?”

 

“And if he did it right, he would’ve had the ultimate protection, wouldn’t he?” said Harry. “In the past, nobody knows him, and so it’s completely safe. And he was planning this all along?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Things were beginning to make a sort of horrible sense. “So there’s a bit of Voldemort’s soul, and one of his Death Eaters, just hanging out—when, exactly?”

   

Dumbledore smiled one of his twinkling smiles, although Harry couldn’t begin to fathom why. This wasn’t exactly the best place for good cheer. He himself was beginning to feel overwhelmed, more so than he had ever felt before when Voldemort had been a tangible enemy to see and fight. So soon after the final battle, this was too much. The bloody Dark Lord just didn’t know when to give up and stay dead.

 

 “1922, America. A place called East Egg.”

 

Harry, already calculating the best time to break the news to his friends ( _yeah, Voldemort’s not as dead as we thought; who’s with me for killing another mad bit of his soul?_ ) and to slip away quietly back seventy-and-some years into the past without causing a stir, barely heard him.

 

“You want me to go back and destroy it, don’t you?”

 

“My dear boy, of course there is no rush.”

 

But, of course, there was.


End file.
